“Never say so again!” I protested.
She was silent for a time, then said, “You are kind. Perhaps you cannot know what it is like to be flattered in that way”
“Oh yes, I can,” I said.
“You? Oh, it isn’t possible.”
I laughed. “My dear, I have learned it was not only possible but probable, as it must be for every unmarried person of fortune.”
She made no reply.
After a moment, I asked, “How came you to bring him here?”
“My uncle had come to Town, because Peter had sent word to him that he was owed money-on the event of my being wed. I had thought Uncle would be in a rage, but he was all that was civil, and merely told Dallingham that perhaps he should like to come to Bingsley Hall for a fortnight, and saying that one day all his own wealth and property would come to me, so Harry may as well become acquainted with the place.”
“And Dallingham couldn’t wait.”
“No.” She sighed. “But I won’t cry craven-I shall contrive to live with Lord Dallingham. I only wanted you to know-well, I was so surprised to see you with him, and so grateful. It has done my nerves a deal of good to know you are at hand, although undoubtedly you’ve found this visit quite dreadful!”
That evening, Charles, as we sat down to dine, I found my attitude toward murderous speech had undergone a sea change. I listened to my lord’s and ladyship’s schemes with rapt attention. And when Lady Bingsley was so good as to teach me the names and properties of certain plants in the nearby woods, I was an apt pupil.
Now, none of this has any bearing, of course, on the sudden death of Lord Dallingham. He died, as was ascertained by the magistrate, of an apoplexy brought on by an unsuspected condition of the heart. He had been drinking steadily throughout his visit to Bingsley Hall-Dallingham, not the magistrate, I mean-and an empty bottle of very fine port was found near his bed. This life of dissipation, the magistrate believes, led to the gentleman’s untimely demise.
Like other gentlemen of the law in centuries before him, the magistrate did not observe the exit to the priest’s hole. It is a very small hiding place indeed-as I discovered by viewing it from the entrance, which was in my own chambers.
Amelia puts off her black gloves in another week, when you may expect an announcement of our betrothal in the Times.
One other thing I must mention, though, Charles. More than once-rattlepate that I am-it has occurred to me that now that the late Lord Dallingham has passed on to his reward without an heir, you are in line for the title. It has also occurred to me that you had never before allowed the late Harry the use of so much as one of your tenant’s wheelbarrows, let alone your own new phaeton. I say, old friend-thank goodness you weren’t in it when that wheel came loose!
However, should you ever feel the urge to loan another phaeton to someone, Amelia’s half-brother may be glad to make use of your generosity.
How very good to be able to confide in you, my dear, dear Charles!
Your most Obedient amp; etc.-
Kit
The Man in the Civil Suit
I have a bone to pick with the Museum of Natural History. Yes, the very museum in which the peerless Professor Pythagoras Peabody so recently met his sad, if rather spectacular, demise. I understand they are still working on restoring the mastodon. But my grievance does not pertain to prehistoric pachyderms.
If the administrators of said museum are quoted accurately in the newspapers, they have behaved in a rather unseemly manner in regard to the late Peabody. How speedily they pointed out that he was on the premises in violation of a restraining order! How hastily they added that he had similar orders placed upon him by a number of institutions, including the art museum, the zoo, and Ye Olde Medieval Restaurant amp; Go-Cart Track! When asked if he was the man named in the civil suit they filed three days ago, how rapidly the administrators proclaimed that Professor Peabody was no professor at all!
Oh, how quickly they forget! They behave as if the Case of the Carillean Carbuncle never occurred. A balanced account of recent events must be given, and as one who knew the man in the civil suit better than any other-save, perhaps, his sister Persephone-I have taken on the burden of seeing justice done where Pythagoras Peabody is concerned.
Although Pythag, as his closest friends-well, as I called him, because frankly, few others could tolerate his particular style of genius at close range-although Pythag never taught at a university or other institution, it is widely known that the affectionate name “Professor Peabody” was bestowed upon him by a grateful police force at the close of the Case of the Carillean Carbuncle, or as Pythag liked to call it, 300. (Some of you may need assistance understanding why-I certainly did. Pythag explained that first letters of Case, Carillean, and Carbuncle are C’s. Three C’s, taken together, form a Roman numeral. I’m certain I need not hint you on from there, but I will say this was typical of his cleverness!)
Need I remind the museum administrators of the details of 300? This most unusual garnet was on display in their own Gems and Mineralogy Department when it was stolen by a heartless villain. True, the museum guards were in pursuit long before the ten-year-old boy left the grounds, and after several hours of chasing him through the halls, exhibits, and displays-including a dinosaur diorama, the planetarium, and the newly opened “Arctic and Antarctica: Poles Apart” exhibit-while conducting what amounted to an elaborate game of hide-and-seek, they caught their thief.
Unfortunately, the Carillean Carbuncle was no longer on his person, and he refused to give any clue as to its location. This was, apparently, a way of continuing the jollification he had enjoyed with these fellows. Not amused, the museum called the police. The boy called in his own reinforcements, and his parents, in the time-honored tradition of raisers of rogues, defended their son unequivocally and threatened all sorts of nastiness if he were not released immediately. The boy went home, and the Carillean Carbuncle remained missing.
Enter Peabody. Actually, he had already entered. It was Pythag’s habit to be the first guest to walk through the museum doors in the morning, and the last to leave at closing. He made himself at home in the Natural History Museum, just as he once had in the art museum, and in the zoo. (The trouble at Ye Olde Medieval Restaurant amp; Go-Cart Track occurred before we were acquainted, but Pythag once hinted that it had something to do with giving the waiters’ lances to the young drivers and encouraging them to “joust.”)
I have said I will give a fair accounting, and I will. Pythag was a man who knew no boundaries. His was a genius, he often reminded me, that could not be confined to the paths that others were pleased to follow. I know some stiff-rumped bureaucrats will not agree, but if he were here to defend himself, Pythag would undoubtedly say, “If you don’t want a gentleman born with an enviable amount of curiosity to climb into an elephants’ compound, for goodness sakes, rely on more than a waist-high fence and a silly excuse for a moat to keep him out.”
Likewise, he would tell you that if your art museum docent becomes rattled when a gentleman with a carrying voice follows along with a second group of unsuspecting art lovers, telling them a thing or two the docent failed to mention to his own group, well then, the docent stands in need of better training. Pythag enjoyed himself immensely on these “tour” occasions, tapping on glass cases and reading aloud from wall plaques to begin his speeches.